


What It Is

by BeLiEVeRiNrAnDOmCApiTaliZatiOn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeLiEVeRiNrAnDOmCApiTaliZatiOn/pseuds/BeLiEVeRiNrAnDOmCApiTaliZatiOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in his life, Hannibal is being consumed. Will devours him, licks him up greedily, takes him in and demands in broken, ruined whispers more, more, more. It is messy and wet and rough and painful and, through a jumbled haze, Hannibal wonders if this is what it is to feel real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It Is

_“Fuck. Me.”_

Will says it to him like a prayer, and a small smile graces Hannibal’s lips for a moment.

They’re in his office and Will is leaning over him, hands on either arm of his chair. Rain pounds the windows and he repeats his command.

“Please, Hannibal, _fuck me.”_

He chuckles. “That is ill-advised, Will.”

He loves to see how the man shatters so readily with his words. Loves to see how he breaks.

 _“Please,”_ he is saying. _“Please,_ Hannibal, I _need_ it.”

Hannibal looks at Will and says, “Why?”

The question seems to take him aback. “What do you mean, _why?”_

“Why do you feel this need?” Hannibal asks him. “Is it how you felt when you pursued a relationship with Professor Bloom?”

Will laughs, _laughs,_ and backs up, running fingers through his hair and over his face. “Oh, no, no,” he says. “No, I’m just so damned tired, Hannibal, I’m so damned tired and alone and I feel so damned empty, I feel so _empty,_ I feel _nothing.”_

“You wish to feel something,” Hannibal says. “You wish to stimulate your physical self in an effort to feel an emotion other than exhaust and loneliness. You wish to feel pleasure.”

Will looks at him, weak smile on his lips. “Stop psycho-analyzing me.”

“It’s my job, Will.”

Then he’s back in Hannibal’s space, their noses pushed uncomfortably together and, if he keeps his eyes unfocused, Will is just a blur of brown curls and one grey eye. The smaller man straddles his hips and hands grab at Hannibal’s vest and snag the fabric with desperate fingers.

“I’m not your patient,” he is saying. “I’m your friend, you _care_ about me, _fuck me, please_ , I _need_ it, _help me.”_

Hannibal lets Will kiss him for roughly twelve seconds before moving his hand up to twist in the man’s hair and restrain him.

“Don’t do this, Will. You may regret it.”

His face is wet and Hannibal gives Will a few moments to stop sobbing. Tears still flow from his eyes as he whimpers out broken pleas.

“I’m going crazy,” he whispers. “I’m going crazy, Hannibal, and you’re the only person I feel _sane_ around. Everyone treats me like I’m a freak and I _am_ but you treat me like I’m _normal, I want to be normal, I want to be normal, I want you, I need you, fuck me.”_

Will’s thought process is quaint, bordering on endearing, and the corner of Hannibal’s lips turn up.

The man’s glasses are digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose and Hannibal reaches up and peels them off of Will’s face. “This could complicate things,” he says as he lays them on the table to the right of his armchair. “Our relationship is primarily professional. To add a sexual depth, particularly when it is based in desperation and mental instability, is unwise.”

Will is smiling again, sad and broken. “Stop talking like a fucking therapist, Hannibal. _Talk_ to _me.”_

Oh, how sweet. Another tug at his lips. This smile reveals the very edge of his top teeth and Will drags a tongue over them as he attempts to kiss Hannibal again. The taller man very sternly retrains him.

“Will,” he says, and it’s gentle. “Think of what you are asking. You are asking me, your professional partner and good friend, to be sexually intimate with you. Aside from your multiple ulterior motives – your desperate search for pleasure and emotion – can you see how this may not be a good idea?”

 _“God,”_ Will says, and it comes out broken, with a crack in the middle, and Hannibal can smell the alcohol on his breath. Perhaps offering such hard liquor before their appointment today had been a bad idea, but he had been so proud of his most recent batch – accented with bones and blood – and he liked the look on Will’s face when he ate, when he _consumed,_ Hannibal’s handiwork. “Stop _talking,_ Hannibal. Stop _talking,_ just _fuck me already.”_

He takes a moment, reflecting upon his own body. Yes, heartbeat accelerated. Yes, breath coming quickly. Stirrings below his waist confirmed his physical consent.

But.

Will was his favourite plaything. To be present in the man’s life was a pleasure; to be the one to watch him tick, an absolute treat. How would such physical intimacy change their relationship? Would Will push him away once the deed was done, depriving Hannibal of his primary source of entertainment?

Oh, no, if Hannibal knew Will, he would come closer, would claw his way back for more, more, _more, more, more._ Hannibal would get to rip him apart, would tear him to shreds with body and mind and word, not _once_ , but _twice,_ as many times as Will would let him, would want him, and Will _wants_ so much.

“Yes,” he says.

Will seems surprised. “Wait, what?”

“Yes. I consent.”

It takes the other man a moment, then their lips are together and Hannibal has to try a few times before he remembers how to properly kiss. It had been a very, very long time, and he had taken to preferring the soft slide of meat past his lips. The unfamiliar feeling of slick, slippery skin catches him off guard and it takes several moments for him to figure out, _yes, this is how you do it, breathe through the nose, kiss him back, open up and accept him. Accept him, give him more, he is greedy for it._

Will is all teeth and tongue and moans that sound on the bridge between pleasure and pain. He ruts against Hannibal and the man _lets_ him, just _lets_ him do as he wants, sitting there passively with fingers in Will’s hair and Will’s lips upon his, until Will bites his mouth hard enough to puncture and draw blood and whispers venomously _“Fuck. Me.”_

So Hannibal does.

For the first time in his life, Hannibal is _being_ consumed. Will devours him, licks him up greedily, takes him in and demands in broken, ruined whispers _more, more, more._ It is messy and wet and rough and painful and, through a jumbled haze, Hannibal wonders if this is what it is to feel real.

And all the while, Will is saying his name.

“Hannibal,” he says. _“Fuck,_ yes. Yes, Jesus Christ, yes, thank you. Thank you, Hannibal, yes, _please.”_

And once Will has finished, he lifts off of Hannibal’s lap and zips up his trousers and Hannibal feels _used._

He wonders if this is what it is to feel lonely.

They do not speak as Will leaves the room. His walk looks painful and he winces as he moves around, retrieves his coat from the rack and then he is gone.

Hannibal does up his own belt and wonders if this is what it is to feel.

If it is, he does not like it. 


End file.
